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“The Missing History” includes the true story of how a small group of generals, diplomats, scholars and others are planning to topple the Indonesian President Suharto in the early 1970s.

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A free draft chapter to read from "The Missing History"

The ambassador came smiling forward to shake hands with Djani.
“Welcome to the Embassy,” he said, holding Djani’s hand warmly. “I am Soepardjo.”
“I am Dewa Soeradjana,” Djani presented himself to be polite, even Hartato just had already announced him. “I am pleased you have time to meet me, Your Excellence.”
“I will leave you,” Hartato said.
“Thank you, Hartato. I will take care of our guest from here. Please have a seat Pak Dewa.” The ambassador pointed at a chair on the long side of the conference table in the middle of the room.
“Thank you, Your Excellence.” Djani said as he put his briefcase on the floor next to the chair.
“Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“I prefer tea Your Excellence,” Djani answered, as the ambassador addressed the secretary to arrange for the tea, before he took a seat at the end of the table. Looking forthcoming at Djani he leaned relaxed back on the chair and said smiling:
“Here we are.”
“Thank you for taking time to see me, Your Excellence Ambassador,” Djani repeated, as he wasn’t sure, that the ambassador had heard it the first time. Unsure of what would be the topic of their conversation, he also felt unsure, whether he should sit formally up-right on the chair or just lean back relaxed as the ambassador. Finally he laid his hands flat on the table, with the wrist resting on the table edge and tried to keep calm, as he got a strange feeling, that he had met the ambassador earlier.
“You live in Slovenia, Pak Dewa?”
“Yes. I live in Kranj, Your Excellence Ambassador. It is approximately 30 km north of our capital Ljubljana.”
“Please do not address me as Your Excellence.”
“Thank you,” Djani said and continued: “Bapak Dubes,” to see, if it would be the right title to use. If not, he would use Pak Soepardjo, even mentioning the ambassador by name would be too close a relation, even it was an Indonesian custom in line with using bung, brother, for someone one admired. However, he would never use General Soepardjo. Nevertheless he appeared to be kind, he was appointed by Soeharto. If not, by Soeharto himself, then by someone in his regime. And for sure he hadn’t been appointed ambassador, without agreeing to Soeharto’s politics. It made ‘bung,’ Indonesian custom or not, out of question.
The ambassador continued looking at Djani, but didn’t say anything.
It made Djani feel obliged to go on:
“Pak Hartato told me, that you arrived just a week ago. How do you like Beograd?”
“I haven’t even had time to see the city. First of all I have to adapt to this place,” Soepardjo made a gesture meaning the embassy. "It is my first position as ambassador. I have spent the last five years as Director of the Asia Pacific Department in our Depart-ment of Foreign Affairs.”
“I hope, you will like it here, Bapak Dubes. Beograd is a very beautiful city. I can rec-ommend a nice restaurant, Orac. I use to go there, when I am here.”
“Thank you,” the ambassador said and stood up to get a paper and pencil from his desk. “To remember it,” he said. As he wrote, he asked:
“Pak Dewa, when did you yourself arrive in Yugoslavia?”
“On 23 March 1961 at Rijeka, Croatia,” Djani answered promptly.
“Why did you choose to go to Europe? It is far away from home, isn’t it?”
Djani looked at his fingers for a while and then he looked at the ambassador, thinking of where to start, before he said:
“Actually it is a bit funny, Bapak Dubes. In 1960, when I was 22 years of age, I was studying at the Mining Faculty at ITB in Bandung. One of my school fellows got a schol-arship for studying in Japan. It was a part of the payment for war damages. He asked me to join him. I accepted, as I had no obligations in Indonesia, other than to get a good edu-cation. I considered it, as a good opportunity to go abroad for further education, to be helpful to our country in the future. We were tested during three days in different sub-jects, like English language, history, the political arrangement in Indonesia etcetera. After the tests we were asked just to wait for the results. When my friend had received his, but I hadn’t got mine, I went to Jakarta to ask for it. I got it and my result was very good. However, I was informed, that my request to go to Japan couldn’t be met. Each Indone-sian province had a quota of two students only. They had been taken already, so there was no space left for me to join. Instead, I was offered to go to Europe. Most probable to Russia or East Germany which I happily accepted. I was eager just to go abroad. I didn’t care where it would be. Two weeks later I was informed, I would be sent to Yugoslavia. My only knowledge about the country at that time was, it was a socialist country, the President was Marshall Joseph Tito and Beograd was its capital. I didn’t even know Yu-goslavia is a federation of six countries. However, I expected to learn more before we left Indonesia, as we had a ten day training period at Puncak near Bogor. A senior student from Czechoslovakia was there to inform us about habits, customs and life in Europe in general. But he didn’t know much about Yugoslavia, so it was a bit fun to us going here. The reason for lack of information about Yugoslavia may come from, that out of 44 stu-dents in the training center, 35 were going to Czechoslovakia and nine only to Yugosla-via,” Djani said to end his explanation.
The ambassador smiled, like he had enjoyed Djani’s story.
“Why did you decide to study in Slovenia and not Beograd?” he asked curiously.
“On 21 January 1961,” Djani continued happy to tell his story, “we started our adven-ture by airplane from Jakarta to Singapore, where we boarded the cargo ship AVALA from Yugoline. Two months later we arrived in Rijeka, after we had been in Venice. It was fun there, because…”
There was a knock at the door and Djani paused.
“Come in,” the ambassador said with a loud voice.
A local Serbian woman, dressed in a white apron and white cap, entered the room hold-ing a tray with two cups of tea, sugar and some cookies. While the woman arranged the cups and the other, Djani took a discrete look at the big portrait on the wall behind his host. ‘It should have been Soekarno. Next to him should have been Hatta, our first vice president,’ he thought. But the space was empty. To Djani it confirmed the patriarchal attitude of Soeharto, leaving no space for others. Looking at the ambassador helping the woman arranging the tea, he became a bit confused of the contradiction of the openness from the ambassador, telling about his own career, and his cruel master. He hardly heard the ambassador thanking the woman, as she left .
“Black Indonesian tea, as back home,” the ambassador smiled as he poured out.
Djani took the cup to taste the tea. The smell was good. The taste as well.
“You were telling about Venice, Pak Dewa. What was so funny?”
“I had never imagined, how beautiful it was and at the same time, it was so cold,” Djani said with the feeling, the ambassador could hear, that he had been about to express some-thing else. Which he had. When the maid had knocked the door, he had been on his way to say: “… we were surprised, that the Italians didn’t know when we told we were from Indonesia, but when we mentioned Soekarno, they knew him very well.” He zipped the tea with a silent thank you to the woman, who had saved him.
“Yes, it is a very different climate, than we are used to, isn’t it.”
“But it was more surprising to us, when we were in Beirut,” Djani went on. “It was the first time, I saw snow.”
“That should be unusual.”
For a moment Djani didn’t knew, what to say. He felt, like he had made a joke of the ambassador by deluding him, that there was snow in Beirut itself.
“It was not in the city,” he said. “It was in the mountains. We could see it from the ship, when we approached the harbor.”
“Of course. Snow in the streets of Beirut, would have been rare, wouldn’t it?”
“I didn’t answer to your question, Bapak Dupes,” Djani continued to get away from Venice and Beirut, “why I decided for Slovenia. When we arrived in Rijeka, we were guests of the trade consular in the nearby town of Opatija. We were there for a whole day. Two senior students from Ljubljana had arrived to inform us, that we could choose to study either here in Beograd, in Zagreb, Croatia or in Ljubljana, Slovenia. I asked about, who were already studying in Ljubljana. When they mentioned the name of a friend of mine I used to play football with in Bandung, it was easy for me to make my choice. So I arrived in Ljubljana on 24 March 1961.”
The ambassador smiled like he felt well entertained.
It made Djani continuing his story:
“I decided to study chemistry, as I wanted later to work at petro-chemicals plants. I had already applied for a scholarship from Caltex in Indonesia, but didn’t get it. I was also thinking of studying agronomy at the faculty at Bogor. I also had applied to study at the Oil Academy in Pladju, near Palembang at Musi River, Sumatra,” he put, even the am-bassador of course knew the location of the Oil Academy. “I was accepted as a student and was prepared to move to Pladju. However, I also got an immediate scholarship from the Ministry of Education in Jakarta, to study mining at ITB in Bandung. I accepted the offer and instead of going to Pladju, I went to Bandung. That is in brief the explanation, why I ended up here.”
“It was quite a bouquet of opportunities you had.”
“Yes, it was. Sometimes it is strange, how things come to you.”
“You haven’t been home, since you arrived in Slovenia,” the ambassador said, more like a fact than a question. “Ten years is a long time not seeing one’s relatives, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t have the opportunity,” Djani said with a blocking voice unsure, whether he should regard it as a rebuke or the ambassador just had made a simple calculation. No matter what, it was a fact.
“When did you finish your study in Ljubljana, Pak Dewa?” the ambassador carried on.
“On 19 October 1965,” Djani answered aware of what would be the next question:
“Weren’t you supposed to go home then?” the ambassador asked, as if he wasn’t sure.
“I was, but as I had good results, I decided to continue to get my Master Degree. I con-sidered, it would be more useful for Indonesia. I was offered a scholarship from the University of Ljubljana and asked one of your predecessors, ambassador Soebijakto, if it was okay, that I continued. It was accepted at once, as it would last two years only,” Djani said and waited for the ambassador’s inevitable question of why he didn’t go home, when he had finished his Master’s Degree in 1967.
But the ambassador just looked friendly at him, if as he waited for Djani to continue.
Djani was considering of how to put his words, so the ambassador wouldn’t get him wrong, when the ambassador asked:
“Am I right, if I guess, that you had met a girl, already when you had to go back in Oc-tober 1965?”
“Yes, I had. To be honest,” Djani smiled.
“What could we expect other, when we send a handsome exotic looking guy to live in a foreign country during four years? Soekarno may have overlooked that risk,” the ambas-sador added still smiling. “Have you married Pak Dewa?”
“Yes, we married in April 1966.”
“So it became difficult to go to Indonesia in 1967, when you finished your Master De-gree.” The ambassador kept smiling, like he enjoyed Djani’s story.
“It wasn’t the reason, why I was staying,” Djani said with a slightly harmed voice. “My aim was to do a Ph.D. study before going home. To be more useful for Indonesia,” he asserted, as if he felt offended by the ambassador’s question.
“Have you succeed?”
“Not yet,” Djani answered, feeling the ambassador looking appraising at him and thought of, whether he should tell, he even hadn’t got started, but decided to leave it. Otherwise he could just wait for the next question. Obviously it would be: Why are you then still here in Yugoslavia? For sure the ambassador knew the truth already. Exactly like he had stated, that Djani hadn’t been home since he left Indonesia.
“What happened?”
“As I couldn’t find a scholarship, we only would have my wife’s salary to live from. It would be too little to survive from month to month, even we rented a very small apart-ment of 30 square meters only,” he said and hoped, he would dare to trust the ambassador and tell him the full truth.
“So you needed find a job or would be left to go home,” the ambassador concluded. Looking appraising at Djani he asked: “Did you ever tell your wife, that you were obliged to go back to Indonesia, when your first study was finished?”
“Yes, of course, I did. Actually, she was aware of it, already before I met her. Her friend was dating an Indonesian studying under the same conditions as me,” Djani said aware of the ambassador’s next question:
“Was she okay with that?”
“Yes,” Djani answered promptly, even it was a comparison of the truth. “However, I succeed to find a job.”
“Wasn’t it difficult as a foreigner without work experience?”
“I applied for a job at the Atomic Institute Josef-Stefan-Ljubljana.”
“An atomic institute?”
“Yes, the director was the former assistant to the professor of the Inorganic Chemistry at the university, so I knew him well,” Djani explained, enjoying the ambassador’s sur-prise.
“What were you supposed to work with at the institute?”
“I would work in the field of Uranium enrichment. It is known as Uranium hexa fluoride or UF6. It can be used as fuel for Nuclear Electric Power.” Djani looked at the am-bassador and continued with a little smile, without knowing why: “And atomic bombs.”
“Atomic bombs?”
“Yes,” Djani couldn’t help smiling of the ambassador, as he looked, as if he didn’t be-lieve him.
“Did you get the job?”
“Almost,” Djani answered with a little smile.
“Almost?”
“I was promised a job at the institute. However, I had to wait three to four months for the final confirmation. They were awaiting their yearly budget here from Beograd. How-ever, one day I was walking in the Tivoli Park to get to town, I met a friend from my fac-ulty study. We discussed my situation and he said, he would be happy to present me to the manager of his company in Kranj. He thought they needed a chemical engineer. I went there and was offered the job. However, I had to sign a contract for two years; oth-erwise, I would be no use to them. As I couldn’t be sure to get the job at the Atomic Institute, I accepted the conditions and informed the Institute, they hadn’t to think more about me.”
“What were the company doing, since it was interesting to you?”
“They were processing ox hide into leather for shoes and alike, as well as producing synthetic leather to be used for upholstery in the car industry. It was based on polyvinyl chloride, better known as PVC and acrylic and polyurethanes.”
“It is a too technical for me,” the ambassador interrupted. “What was your occupation?”
“I was employed to research and develop artificial leather. At the end of 1969 I was transferred to be the assistant of the production manager, where my job was to take care of everyday production and to solve problems occurring in the production. My boss was occupied with meetings and political affairs most of the time. But as we cooperated very well, I learned a lot from him.”
The ambassador looked at Djani for a moment before he asked:
“Pak Dewa, do you consider yourself as a good manager?”
“I believe I am, Bapak Dubes,” Djani answered surprised by the question.
“Pak Dewa, if you were given the possibility to choose, would you then prefer to work as a manager or as a specialist?”
“I don’t know,” Djani answered and wondered a little of the question. He had just an-swered to, if he considered himself being a good manager.
“Pak Dewa. Do you have children?”
“Yes, we have a son. Robert. He is two and a half years old.”
“Robert? It isn’t a typical Indonesian name.”
“No, it isn’t. My wife and I had an agreement, that if we would have a son, she would give the name and if, it would be a girl, I would give the name.”
“So now you hope for a girl?”
“We are expecting our next child end of April,” Djani said proudly.
“Congratulation,” the ambassador smiled. “I have two sons myself. They are 10 and 12.”
Djani took his wallet from his jacket pocket.
“This is my wife, Marija Ana, and my son,” he said, as he showed the ambassador a photo.
“How is it to be an Indonesian in Slovenia?” the ambassador asked after having studied the photo for a moment.
“It is fine. People are very welcoming and friendly. It is a very nice country. We are less than two million inhabitants. You should come and visit us to know Slovenia and also visit the company, where I am working. If possible, you should also meet my family to see, how we live.”
“I will find a convenient time for it,” the ambassador said and started to stand up.
Djani followed the ambassador’s move. When he had buttoned his jacket he returned to the formal address, he had used at first:
“Your Excellency, thank you for taking your time to invite me to your office. If Pak Hartato informs you, that I appeared a bit reluctant to accept the invitation to meet with you, it just came from, that I was surprised. I am not used to meet our ambassador face-to-face.”
“I am always very interested in meeting my fellow countrymen. Also if it wasn’t a part of my job,” the ambassador smiled, as he opened the door for Djani.
“Then we will see you in Slovenia,” Djani said and was just about to put:
“Pak Soepardjo.”

A nations history is based on the truth of several incidents. Some nations history is based on several truths of the same incident.

In 1945, seven years old, after escaping into the Balinese jungle, Dewa Soeradjana, his family and the rest of the villagers, watches how KNIL, the Royal Dutch-East Indies Army, and their Indonesian henchmen are burning down all their houses, destroying the crops and killing all the livestock, leaving nothing behind.

It is how Dewa Soeradjana‘s amazing life took off to culminate, when he in 1972, 34 years old, becomes involved in the planning to topple the Indonesian President Soeharto without knowing why.

* * * * *

In early 1974 the Indonesian President Suharto is handed a document from General Ali Murtopo, head of OPSUS, an extra-constitutional agency with broad and undefined powers. The document hints that a general with the initial S will attempt a coup détat in between April and June 1974.

The initial S meant General Soemitro, a distinguished army man, Commander of KOPKAMTIB, the Indonesian secret police agency for restoration of security and order, and by this the most powerful man in Indonesia, next to President Soeharto himself.

However, is it possible that the document, known as the Ramadi-document, refers to an incident, which took place already in June 1972, two years earlier than hinted?

But, if the coup was planned to take place already in 1972, how is it then possible, that the participants as generals, diplomats and high level civil servants continued to serve President Suharto and his regime, and some even were promoted to higher positions, in the years which followed?

* * * * *

Based on Dewa Soeradjana’s personal story the book gives a valuable insight in the true Indonesian story from 1938 – 1972.

It is also the example par excellence of how the will to will creates the possibilities.

Photo: General Soepardjo and Pak Dewa March 1972.

* * * * *

“The Missing History is written by Peer Holm Jørgensen, the author of The Forgotten Massacre (Mizan 2009). As he believes in history defines the future, the book also provides an invaluable insight in history for the young Indonesian generations of today and those to come.

It may also set a new standard of public awareness, when it comes to the ruling power.

About Indonesia:
With approximately 250 million inhabitants sharing more than 17.000 islands spanning over three time zones Indonesia is the fourth biggest nation on Earth.

Arriving with the Arabian traders around 8th century and by the 15th century spread to most of the islands Indonesia today is the biggest Muslim society in the world; however not the only religion as 5 more are officially recognized by the government. Hereto there are about 245 non-official religions.

Until 1522 when the Portuguese built their first fort Indonesia had been a dynamic organization of countless kingdoms and sultanates.
In 1596 the Dutch arrived and colonization initiated. 350 years later in 1945, based on the Pancasila, Indonesia liberated itself from the colonial powers. 20 years later in 1965 one of the darkest periods in the Indonesian history changed the standards of governing.

Modern Indonesia has recently started its journey towards its deserved position in the world community.

It is a novel about what people are able to do at each other without wanting to, when a superpower in 1965 plays Russian Roulette with the Indonesian nation and its population.

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Chapter 1

It was late morning in Jakartas harbor, Tanjung Priok, near the end of September 1965. The air was heavy, smelling of impending rain and the hot tar of the wharf. It mixed in with the lacy spicy scents from the low open warehouses. In about an hour the dark noon clouds would cover the sky almost obliterating any daylight. Within moments the tropical rain would cascade down attempting to soak everything, dead or alive.
The old tug with its much too large superstructure and plentiful colored crew issued a deep roar, blew a black cloud up through the smokestack, as if pulling itself together, and then with all its effort tugged Clementine away from the pier.
Clementine was a proud old lady from the days when ships were still riveted. The two midship structures, the tall smokestack with the company logo, the many derricks for loading and unloading, and all its ropes and lines, accentuated her dignity. She was royalty in the companys shipping-around-the-world-service. Not even the lack of paint on her hull could change that.
Kasper stood on the pier watching the efforts of the tug to get her out into the middle of the harbor basin. He already missed her. Now her bow pointed out towards the Jakarta Sea. He saw the tugs crew dropping the last hawsers. Another couple of roars from the two ships broke the noon heat. It was goodbye. Clementines 10,000 horse-power were slowly being let loose. The sound of dull thuds rose to the sky. Her propeller began turning and was soon leaving a white line of wake whipping behind her as she slowly sailed towards the open sea. Aft, a sailor hauled in the huge Danish flag, while a smaller one was being hoisted on the monkey island over the bridge. Forwards, on starboard side of the fore-mast the Indonesian flag flew. An army of seagulls flapped around screeching to then bullet-dive in a hungry fight for the fish that had been flushed up by Clementines propeller. Their screeching accompanied the very part of Kaspers life that was sailing away. Even though it wasnt the first time he had been discharged, even here in Southeast Asia, it was a strange feeling to see a ship disappear into the horizon. Just like a few years earlier in Singapore, a short message had been receivedlike the snap of a finger from the shipping companythat he was to change to another ship. So he had better get all his gear packed in a jiffy and say goodbye to what had served as his home. Here he had lived with people he probably would never see again. In some years, perhaps 15-20, the ship would be cut up and that part of his life would be gone forever. Where a torn-down house once stood, the ground beneath forever remains. Even in Hiroshima. Maybe a new house shoots up; but where a ship has sailed, the water simply closes in and not even a trace is left. Just like at the piers where she had loaded and unloaded her cargo, with the possible exception that some sailor who for fun or for the love of his ship had painted the name on the pillars one day while he was shining her up on the outside. No other traces would be left. There would be nothing for him to return to. At best there would be some records in some register, a picture in some old crews locker, maybe a model at the shipping agency. And then perhaps a good story or two. Perhaps a ships propeller or a nametag from a lifeboat, which hanging on its davits, had been crushed one violent winter night in the North Atlantic by enormous swells, where the icing from the storm attempted to force the ship into the depthmice, men and rats. Or a life buoy, which had drifted ashore on Iceland three months after the shipwreck of Hans Hedtoft at Cape Farewell. Thats how it was. That was the price you paid to experience the world. And thats what he wanted. Even so, he thought, he was allowed to miss her; he sensed his loss and felt like a bum of the sea, picked up his two pigskin suitcases and walked in the direction of the small, rather flat white administration building at the end of the pier. An employee from the shipping agent was waiting for him and busily explaining something in Indonesian to a uniformed man while pointing at Kasper. From his gestures Kasper guessed what was being said and broke out in a voice that left no doubt that he meant it:
- Im going to town!
- Thats not possible, answered the agent.
- Why not?
- You have to have a shore pass!
- Well, I have this from Clementine.... Kasper reached for his shirt pocket.
- Its not valid once the ship has sailed.
- Then Ill get a temporary one!
- No! Youll wait here until Jessie arrives, the agent commanded nodding towards the building porch.
Kasper looked there. Against the white wall was a bench of rough hewn boards. He turned to the agent who continued:
Besides, what do you want to do with those? He nodded in the direction of Kaspers suitcases.  You cant get them out through the gate. His voice was firm.  And if you leave them here, you know whatll happen.
- Nonsense, Kasper almost burst out, but he caught himself. He just looked at the agent and asked, - When will Jessie arrive?
- Around four!
- Around four! Kasper repeated.
He looked at the uniformed man and then nodded to the agent, as if it was OK that he had to wait. That he was going to make the perhaps five hours on the porch an experience even if there was very little to look at in the harbor. After Clementine had sailed there were only a few worn-down Indonesian ships left on the opposite pier and there was no activity around them. The cranes stood large and rusty in straight lines on their spindly legs, like swans bowing their heads towards the water in hope that food would come floating by. He shrugged, sat down on the bench with a knowing smile to the uniformed man, who with a couple of fingers to the bill of his cap said goodbye to the agent.
A couple of minutes after the agent had left, Kasper got up and went into the building. Two large fans turned in the ceiling. He aimed for the desk with a small sign, which said Imigrasi. Behind it sat the man the agent had instructed. His cap was on the desk. Kasper handed him his discharge book and the shore pass from Clementine. Inside the book was a dollar bill. A moment later he had a temporary shore pass.
- Can they stay here? He asked a customs agent who sat at another desk in a mixture of English and sign language pointing at his suitcases outside.
- Of course, the customs agent answered.  You can put them in here. He stood up and opened the door to a small room. - Nothing will happen here, he went on. His English was perfect.
- Thanks, said Kasper a little embarrassed at having used sign language and he carried the two suitcases over to the designated spot. He shook hands with the customs agent passing another folded dollar bill. It was pure nonsense that one could not trust the Indonesians.
True, there had been a theft in Belawan Deli in northern Sumatra almost a year earlier. It was in the middle of the night after a rough night on the town, where he according to his buddies, had stripped at a bar. That was a claim, which was outside of his sphere of recollection. He had been woken by someone snooping around in his room. Without having fully woken up he jumped up landing in the drawer under the bunk, which his uninvited guests had busily been emptying, whereupon he knocked his head into the door frame as he attempted to run after them.
That might as well have happened anywhere in the world, even in Denmark, he thought. It had nothing to do with the Indonesians.
After all it was all about showing confidence.

Outside the small white building he turned left and followed the pot holed paved road that ran along the end of the harbor.
It was good to walk here. This was everything he had been dreaming of, while lost in his own world he had used the school atlas to draw sailing routes to distant continents and dreamingly had sat in the first row of the school auditorium where travelers like Jens Bjerre came back from the Himalayas with Roof of the World and Jørgen Bitsch had unpacked his gear and exuberantly told about his expeditions showing films about black ecstasy in Africa and Indians in the Amazon jungle.
Afterwards Bangsbo Creek became the Amazonas and Salamander Lake on Pikker Hill became Victoria Lake with the salamanders taking on the role of dangerous crocodiles, while Water Works Forest became the African jungle.
He remembered the old Indian, who had predicted his future the first time he was in Hong Kong in 1962. You will have a long life and live to be 93 years old, the Indian had said. How could he know? Kasper had been 17 at the time and looking at becoming 93, he felt he had eternity within his grasp. He still felt that way.
The old Indian also said that Kaspers life would be like living on an island. Kasper had been impressed until he realized that the old soothsayer had had an easy play: A ship was a kind of island. In some way his parents mania for always moving was also like living on an island.
Of the ten places he had lived before he had first signed up, there were 13 monthsit was the seventh placethat had been the absolute best. It was the on the second floor above his dads tailor workshop on Harbor Street, Frederikshavn, Denmark. He had been ten then and even with duties like carrying coal up to the tall cylindrical stove in the sitting room, and running back and forth between the tailor shop and Danielsen Bros. Ladies Store so the customers could get the exact buttons they desired for their new clothes, it had been an eldorado to live there. The courtyard was cobblestoned and had the back entrance to the Grand Café, where it was easy to sell lottery tickets. The yellow backhouse had warehousing on the ground floor and apartments above. One of his playmates lived here. The row of outhouses in the courtyard had a back wall towards the scrap dealer. Mr. Underskov would hang out in the gateway, always polishing his taxicab and always talking to any passerby. In the front house lived the fruit merchant, the eye doctor, the tobacco dealer and the journalist with whom they shared a toilet on the backstairs.
But even as Harbor Street itself was an eldorado with a wealth of shops and businesses and the Saturday pig auction in the Wine Cellar stables, his emerging paradise was in the sunrise toward the East:
It was the harbor with its pound net dinghies, the well-boxes with their enormous crabs just under Mortensens wooden ship yard, and the rafts where the glass eels from the Sargasso Sea flittered in and out between the fine green hair on the seaweed waving alongside the rafts; and they were impossible to catch by hand. It was the large ferries, the white Princess Margaretha in the morning from Gothenburg, Sweden, and the black Peter Wessel from Larvik, Norway, that every other night delighted a great amount of people by opening its huge jaw and slamming its tongue onto the pier so the cars could get off the ship. It was the beautiful Vistula and the old steamer Frederikshavn, a remnant from the turn of the century with a straight stem sailing to Copenhagen. It was the small post boat going to Hirsholmene Islands and the schooner Kongsoere that did packet service. It was the red fish auction by the ice factory, the red fishermans houses, the sailing club with its mast at the northern jetty, the coal wharf with its cranes, the ship yard with the floating dock, where the triplets Ras, Robert and Roemoe Maersk came into this world along with a host of other ships, such as the Greenland ship Hans Hedtoft, which couldnt sink, and the tanker Charlotte Maersk that every Spring was in dock with its propeller chopped to bits by the winter ice. There was the park with the bomb box, the fishermen on their pedestal in memory of those who had died at sea, and the manna tree and the man in the black uniform who bicycled out at dusk to light every single streetlight on Old Harbor, and the early summer mornings where the pound net fishers took Kasper and his brother out to empty the nets of small summer mackerels.
It was a complete universe.

Three moves after the paradise years by the harbor and a well developed interest in girls, which wasnt reciprocated, he had turned fifteen and dad, mom and he were back on the opposite side of Harbor Street, now on the second floor above dads new shop in number 10. Here he had a view from his room over Old Harbor. It had not lost its magic.
One afternoon, when he had organized a giant crab race on a raft, he saw as so many times before the training ship Manja Dan pull into harbor. He interrupted the crab race, they didnt want to run in the same direction anyway, threw the combatants back in the well-box and walked up to Pilot Street with all its drinking joints, knocked and somewhat carefully walked in through the door with a sign he had looked at a few times. It was the Sailors Association. They received him well. Unfortunately they couldnt help him. Somewhat perplexed hed been told that he needed a sailors discharge book to get hired. And you have to be hired in order to get a discharge book, they had added.
After that they told him what to do.

His was first hired as assistant steward on a tanker. The title covered a combination of cabin and mess boy, ten hours a day, seven days a week.
One day in June 1962 (he had just turned 16 in March) he got hired on his first ship, a tanker, in the roads of Elsinore. Because it was a brand new tanker it had loaded freshwater in Amsterdam for Curacao in the Caribbean. On his way across the Atlantic he had been seasick for days. But he gritted his teeth and endured. Having unloaded the fresh water in Curacao they sailed to Venezuela to load oil. Here, sitting under a palm tree that day in August on the shores of Lake Maracaibo, he sent his classmates a friendly thought as they started back to high school after summer vacation. After South America followed the Middle East and all the while he was listening to the tales of the crew on the blessings of life in the general cargo tradein particular the way it played out in the Far East.
He liked the changing life. It was better than moving around in Denmark. How many people could step into a new country when they opened their door?

His thoughts were interrupted by a military truck rattling by. On the load behind the drivers cabin was a bunch of soldiers. Kasper pretended not to see them and concentrated on a row of tall palm trees on the other side of the road. Behind them were a lawn and some low bushes. They surrounded the old building where the white gentlemen of the harbor: stevedores, shippers, receivers and ships officers used to meet while native servants supplied them with cool drinks. He had been inside once. That was the very first time he was here. He had believed it was one of the many sailors clubs the English had spread as bastions across their empire. It had appeared as a museum, a monument to a bygone time, the time when changing colonial powers had exploited Indonesiaas they still did in many places around the world.
Its strange, he thought. How come there were no white waiters serving the Indonesians? The white were the foreigners. Just like the Yugoslavian foreign workers who came to Denmark.
Having traveled around the world a couple of times there was one thing he kept wondered about: So much wealth in some places and at the same time so much poverty in other, only because some countries wanted to rob others of their valuables and gain power over people. Was it anything but simple theft and coercion? Just like the time the redhead Jan on Flad Beach forced Kasper to supply him with candy in order to avoid getting beaten up on his way home from school, while everyone else turned their backs. True, it was not the thoughts he had had when he learned about the glorious British Empire. The empire where the sun never sets. But a few moments one night in a Singapore movie theater had changed all that. At first he had found it beautiful when the movie ended and everybody got up singing God Save the Queen to a picture of Queen Elizabeth that had appeared on the screen accompanied by the national anthem. Impressed he had looked around at the audience. The moment was beautiful, but he soon sensed that something was lacking: There was no pride in the voices, like when the Danes sang There is a Beautiful Country on the bleachers of the Sports Parkor the Midsummer Song at the summer solstice bonfires. Their faces lacked a glow; as if they were singing under duress rather than by desire. They looked like well-disciplined school kids just waiting for recess from a sadistic teacher. That view shook his teachings about the gloriousness of Englands purported assistance to the countries over which they had assumed power.
He had gotten him the exact same sensation as when he rode in the New York subway, well aware that the USA still had serious racial discrimination in the South, and he could feel the lynching atmosphere when he offered his seat to a tired old black woman. Both times, in Singapore and in New York, he had thought, there is something seriously wrong here. Its unfair to treat other people this way, chiseled itself into his consciousness. What the devil is wrong with the white race? He had thought. What kind of malady are they suffering from? Why is power so important? Why is it so important to rob others of their country and land? These questions had engaged him a lot. The light of clarity struck him a few days later after they sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge on their way from San Francisco to the Philippines. For days he had looked across the Pacific and one night three weeks later he felt proud when sitting at the bar at Rickys on Carnavon Road in Hong Kong as he confided his new-found wisdom to one of Africas sons on the barstool next to him, It is unfair not to like a man because of his skin color. But it is fair not to like him because of his behavior. Completely in agreement they cheered and touched glasses, whereupon the others head slammed down on the counter deep in sleep and Kasper had to look around for another listener.

A decrepit truck coughed by with far too big a load. On top of the load sat a couple of guys. Kasper looked at them. Almost unknowingly he smiled and nodded to a man pushing a bicycle. The tires were flat. The luggage carrier had been padded for an extra seat. The man returned the smile.
The colonial building on the other side of the road, the few worn-out ships in the harbor, the inactive cranes, the tall palm trees, the sparse slow traffic on the road and the pressing heat just ahead of the noon rain gave him the feeling that time was standing still. That the western world, which rushed around at full steam in Northern Europe and the USA had left Indonesia in a time pocket after it for centuries in turn had been exploited by Portugal, Holland and England without itself gaining anything. As if Indonesia was a finished woman, used and thrown away like a worn-down whore in Shanghai. Couldnt they see that she possessed a beauty and calm far removed from their rushing and rushed society filled with smoking industrial chimneys? He reminisced of the day in March when he turned 18 on the west coast of Sumatra. On that day under the equatorial sun in the white lagoon south of Padang, he had felt himself on the edge of a new paradise.
As if Indonesia was still a flower bud; a bud that one day would unfold anew in unfathomable beauty to the delight of the Indonesian people. With Sukarno as President, the freedom hero that had released them from the oppression of the colonial masters, it had to be this way even with shadows, like the Indonesian military.

He reached the main gate that separated the harbor area from Tanjung Priok. The soldiers were there with their usual attitude, one arm resting on the submachine gun hanging in its strap over the shoulder, its barrel pointing down. However, a couple of them were always on the alert. They stood feet lightly apart with a firm grip on their weapons, ready to shoot if necessary.
Kasper handed over his temporary shore pass. A soldier looked at it, handed it to his senior, who studied it closely.
Kasper attempted to appear neutral. On a good day they would expect a payoff and let him pass. On a bad day they would body search him and he did not like that. On a really bad day they would keep everything he had in his pockets. On the worst day they would refuse to let him ashore.
- Do you have any cigarettes? the soldier he had handed the pass to asked, while the other still simulated studying it.
Kasper did not smoke but he had long since learned the rules of the game. He stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out an unopened 20 pack of American Salem and handed it to the soldier, who took it and handed it to his colleague, who pocketed it. Thereupon Kaspers shore pass traveled the same way back. He knew that the cigarettes would not be split between the soldiers at the gate. They would be sold a few days later on the black market. The officer would keep the money.
Kasper stuffed the shore pass in his shirt pocket. Outside the gate he once again turned left as he had at the small administrative building at the end of the pier.
A couple of boys, who he estimated to be between seven and ten years old, quickly swarmed around him, their hands stretched out and eyes begging. They were dressed in worn T-shirts with just as worn shorts and no shoes on. The gravel on the road whirled around their brown feet. Their straight-cut black hair bobbed up and down.
- Like nice girl? they asked eagerly in unison.
Kasper did not answer them. They too were a part of life out here.
- Mister, I find nice girl for you, one of them continued unaffected. - Sir! he added so as to heighten Kaspers status.
Kasper shook his head. It didnt mean anything to them that they had acted out the same scene for him the day before and many other times before this, and that they would do this again and again to him and others. It was hard not to smile at their persistence, or to give them a little money. But he knew all about how stupid that would be. Then he would really be in trouble. Then they would consider him their bapakthe one who took care of them.
- You like small boys? the other boy asked, taking over the marketing.
Kasper again shook his head in denial. He had reached the road leading to London Bar.
- You like Billy-boys! the boys continued in harmony pointing demonstratively at the tall blonde Dane and doubled over laughing.

The Forgotten Massacre is a personal tale of dreams and friendships, love, affection and jealousy, strong mental relations, about naivety, guardian angels and faith in being able to cope with the impossible.

It is a novel, with parallels to our time. Is the present different from the past?

The action takes place in a combination of CIA activities and five young people trying to save each other from the massacre.

Released in 2006, the novel, with its 42 year old colored protagonist, became invariably present in the Presidential elections in 2008 with its precise predictions about campaign development and outcome.

Long before the campaign for the presidential election in 2008 took off and before the candidates declared their participation in the race to win the White House  the author predicted that the president elect would be a coloured person born by Afro-American / white parents.

Running for America

The novel takes off a year before a presidential election presenting the well-known scenery of a small group of wealthy white men and a single white woman as the protagonists in the competition to win the White House. As usual a number of other candidates, tried as well as untried waits in the wings

The question is whether one of the candidates will be able to bring the U.S. back into the good company or ?

For the time being published in Danish only, as no literary agents or publishers abroad believed in the prediction would come through.

Back-log is a management novel based on the author’s own experience as head of a French company in crisis. It gives a deep insight into French social policy as well as the very special rules of the labor market.

It is often said that businessmen in France are either already in jail or on their way to prison.

Of course it is a truth with modifications. Yet there is something about the talk and not only related to the cases of corruption that reach the international media, as in no other country a businessman is so exposed, unwittingly to violate the labor laws, which were thrown together over a short period of time after which they have been exposed to so many changes that begets a huge bureaucracy and even have made most of them contradictory.

Backlog is a dramatized true story about a French company in crises.

After submission of the manuscript the author himself was detained and interrogated with a sieve rights by the French Police.